Diamond in the Rough
by directedbysherlock
Summary: Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes accidentally meet on the internet and discover they might have something in common after all.


Lestrade sat behind his desk, drumming his fingers rapidly on the grainy wood, staring at the blank profile section on his computer screen. Think. Think. Think. What should he say about himself? He'd never done anything like this before. He didn't know what had got into him to do it today. He looked out his door over the top of the computer, made sure no one was coming towards his office. Relatively assured of some brief moments of privacy, he cracked his knuckles and dug in again.

Vocation: Detective Inspector.

No, no, no. Delete that. Better to keep this all non-specific, didn't really want people at the office to get wind of it.

Vocation: Government official. Yes, that was much better. It sounded important, yet sufficiently vague.

Height: 5'10". That was decent, he could keep that.

Weight: Definitely shave some off there…

Age: 44. Close enough.

Ok, so far so good. Next section. He filled it in quickly, choosing from a pre-made list of suggestions:

_Likes: Movies, drinks at the pub with mates, football, crime fiction, kissing in the rain._

God, so dull. So plebian. He thought about his fantasy, the person he would like to get with the most. He would never get with a man like that if he confessed to pubs and football and common fiction. He deleted it and rewrote it again.

_Likes: Theater, fine dining, equestrian sports, historical nonfiction, kissing in the rain._

He found he could not delete the last one, so he left it. "Kissing in the rain" was clichéd, but he liked it. It sounded romantic. He could use some romance. He was determined to actually do that one day.

There. Done. Without over thinking it, he hit the 'submit' button. Shit, it would not go through without creating a profile name. He quickly thought of something: _Silverfox007_. He hit 'submit' again with a sense of satisfaction. Profile completed.

Then his phone rang, and immediately he was off to the next thing.

That had been one week ago. And now here he was, on his way to a coffee shop. It was a cold spring day, with a stinging drizzle starting to fall. He shrugged deeper into his trench coat, pulled the collar up around his neck. He pulled out his phone and he checked his e-mail for the tenth time.

_I'll be wearing a black tie with white stripes, _he had written_._ He chose his loudest tie to wear so he could not be mistaken for anyone else.

_I'll have a red handkerchief in my suit jacket pocket_, the reply had been, from _mycakeandeatit2_.

Well, here goes nothing, Lestrade thought, pushing open the door. Immediately, warm air enveloped him, along with the aroma of brewing coffee. He walked in and threw a glance around the room, but he did not see any men his age sitting alone with a red handkerchief in a suit jacket pocket. God, he was nervous. He hadn't really had time to think about this. It had been a crazy week; a couple of murders had occupied all his time. He was lucky he'd even been able to get this time off. He selected a table at the far end of the room with his back to the wall so he could survey everyone who walked in.

Only seconds later - Lestrade had not even sat down to take his coat off yet - a familiar figure glided into the coffee shop. Tall, handsome, on the lean side, sandy short brown hair carefully swept to the side, beautiful alabaster skin, meticulously dressed in a long tailored rain coat buttoned all the way up, holding an umbrella. The blood drained from Lestrade's face at the same time his heart sped up. Fuck, Mycroft. Here, of all places.

Mycroft glanced around the room and was startled to see Lestrade, and as their eyes met he nodded in recognition before he moved further into the cafe. Lestrade saw him go around a corner and presumably take a seat at the window, where he was out of his view.

Lestrade slowly sat down, and removed his coat. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all. He took his phone out of his pocket and read a different e-mail again. He reviewed the profile of the person he was meeting.

_Likes: Drinks at the pub with mates, crime fiction, football, movies, kissing in the rain._

Ironic, that, the last one. That's what sealed the deal for him. The other 'likes' sounded just great, too. He had immediately sent a message to that profile, and to his surprise, had received a response back quickly. They had set a date and a time to meet, and that was the last spare minute he'd had to think much more about it, at least in any depth.

He checked his watch. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen. Fuck. He sighed. What a stupid idea this had been. He craned his neck around, but he could not see around the corner where he knew Mycroft must still be sitting.

Mycroft. It was not that he didn't like seeing Mycroft. No, it was just the opposite. He liked seeing him _too much_. This whole thing was, in fact, a mission of distraction to forget wanting to see Mycroft. Wanting to touch that pale skin, to run his hands through that hair, all over his proper suit to unbutton and untuck, rumpling and ruffling, to know that he was the one to mess up that beautiful exterior. He didn't know why Mycroft got to him so much, he just did.

Shit. It was at just that moment that he realized what he had done, now that he'd seen Mycroft. His profile was all wrong; he'd grossly misrepresented himself. He'd filled it out on a whim. He hadn't described himself as he really was; he had described himself as he _wished_ he was. If he was really more like he had pretended to be, maybe Mycroft would spare him a glance. And with some resignation he also thought about the profile he had actually responded to; someone just like himself. He realized now the selections were exactly what he had written. Pubs and football and mates and fiction. Right up his street. He had reached for the stars but was falling back to earth, where he belonged. This was so doomed to failure. It was just as well this meeting didn't seem to be happening.

Another five minutes passed. He drummed his fingers on the table, thinking. He was extremely aware of Mycroft just on the other side of the room, even though he couldn't see him. He could _feel_ him. An idea was forming. They were not at work. No one else they knew was around. His so-called date was standing him up. There wasn't much to lose at this point. Still, he dithered.

Damn it. What would be the harm? He was here. Mycroft was here. Why not just go over and offer to buy him a coffee? See where things might go? If he lost his nerve, he could pretend it was all business and they could just talk about Sherlock. There was always plenty of material on that front.

Fuck it. Life was short.

Decision made, he squared his shoulders and stood up with purpose. Adjusted the lapels of his jacket he knew was a little on the shabby side, straightened his tie. Ran his hand over his silvery hair, smoothing it down. He grabbed his coat and draped it over his arm and made his way across the café. Just as he was rounding the corner to the section where Mycroft was sitting, he nearly ran straight into someone else coming from the other way.

"Oh, pardon," he started to say, but the words died on his lips as he saw, right in front of him, a red handkerchief in a pocket. A pocket from a suit he knew well. It was not that he knew much or cared much about clothes, but he recognized all the different cuts and fine tweeds of every suit that he had ever seen Mycroft wear. Every time he saw him he drank him in, memorizing every detail. And the smell, my god, the smell. Unmistakable. Rich tobacco, like from a fine cigar. Cedar from an antique wardrobe, he imagined. Refined cologne, no doubt expensive.

Astounded, he looked up at the slightly taller man, who was in turn looking down at his tie, the loud black tie with the white stripes. The one that could not possibly be mistaken. Mycroft then shifted his gaze to meet Lestrade's.

"Well!" was all Mycroft managed to sputter, uncharacteristically flustered, his body rigid with tension. After a moment he pulled himself together, expression again set to neutral, and said smoothly, "_Silverfox007_, I presume."

Lestrade tried to mentally clear his head. He could not believe his luck, could not believe this was happening. _Don't blow this_, he told himself, _don't blow this_.

"So, _mycakeandeatit2_," Lestrade said, trying to keep his tone casual, as cool and elegant as Mycroft's. He tried to keep his hand from shaking while he gestured toward the window seats that Mycroft had just vacated, not wanting to reveal his nervousness. "Fancy a coffee?"

Mycroft's lips twitched in a small smile. "I was just coming to ask you the same."

Setting their coats down, they claimed two bar stool chairs at the window, Lestrade on the left and Mycroft on the right, both half turned in their seats towards each other. Distracted by their thoughts, neither man remembered to order coffee.

A full minute of silence passed as they each stared outside into the rain, which had increased suddenly from a drizzle to a downpour.

Finally, Lestrade sighed. "Did you know it was me, from the profile?"

"No," Mycroft answered. "Did you….?"

"No." Lestrade confirmed, negatively shaking his head. "Not in a million years."

There was another brief moment of silence before Mycroft murmured, "What an extraordinary coincidence."

Coincidence or not, here they were, Lestrade thought. He wasn't sure how this was going to turn out, but he hoped for the best. It's not like they had a lot in common. His brows furrowed, though, as he thought about his now obviously fake profile, slightly overcome with a sheepish embarrassment. He could see no recourse but to just address it up front.

"I lied, obviously. I don't like equestrian sports. I'm not even sure what that means."

Mycroft smiled slightly in return. "I would never watch a football match at a pub. I don't believe I've ever used the word 'mate' before in a sentence. We both lied."

Lestrade let out a quick snort of laughter, then felt it well up within him, a real honest to god laugh as the absurdity of the situation hit him fully. He should have been even more embarrassed or uncomfortable or _something_, but he just wasn't. He was just happy to be here, it felt right, and it felt good to let go of his nervousness with laughter. He hadn't laughed like that in a long, long time.

"I don't quite see the humor, Inspector," Mycroft grumbled.

"Oh, shit," Lestrade said good-naturedly, running a hand over his five o-clock shadow. "You don't think it's funny? Look at us. Two middle aged men meeting by accident because we lied on our profiles. Like were doing undercover work with secret ties and handkerchiefs." Lestrade finally calmed down, took a deep breath. "Well, I think it's funny. Christ, I haven't laughed like that in ages. Not much to laugh about at work, homicides and assaults aren't very funny."

"Neither are interrogations and coup d'états," Mycroft agreed. Mycroft seemed to relax a little, then let out a short bark of laughter. "I don't even know why I did it. Lied, I mean."

Lestrade tilted his head, lifted an eyebrow as he caught Mycroft's gaze and held it. "You don't? I do."

Mycroft seemed intrigued. "Enlighten me."

Lestrade felt himself go a little weak, as Mycroft's eyes bore into his own. Looking at him with complete attention in a way he had never done before. Like he was the only one in the room. Like he was interesting, intelligent…attractive. He gathered his courage, this might be his only chance to ever say it.

Lestrade cleared his throat, which had gone a little dry. "At least, I know why _I_ did it. When I wrote my profile I was thinking of you. I wanted to be like you. Someone you would notice. Maybe you're sorry I'm not him, I don't know. You must have been expecting someone posh; it's the profile you answered."

Mycroft was silent for a moment, but finally spoke. "Very astute, Inspector." Then he exhaled slowly. "It seems I'm only blind when it comes to myself. I suppose I did the same thing. I wanted to be different, too. Someone you would like. It's not easy being, you know…me." He looked over at Lestrade when he said that, maybe expecting a jibe, which did not come, so he continued.

"My job can be...isolating." Mycroft paused for a moment, frowned. "I didn't think you even liked me that much, to tell you the truth. I thought you tolerated me at best, because you have a good heart. Which I admire greatly, since I've been told I'm lacking in that area."

Lestrade was surprised that Mycroft had not long ago deduced his attraction to him. All this time he'd assumed he had and then assumed Mycroft was just not interested. So he'd been playing it cool around him, not wanting to feel the sting of rejection he was so sure would come. He hadn't really dared to imagine, until just now, that the attraction could be mutual.

Suddenly emboldened by the vulnerable cracks in Mycroft's normally impeccable facade, he leaned in closer to him. He was nearly dizzy with the formerly forbidden pleasure of being so physically close to him, so turned on by hearing Mycroft speak freely and intimately for the first time. Lestrade's blood stirred, and when he spoke his voice came out low, rough. He practically growled into Mycroft's ear. "Oh, I like you all right. Fuck, you have no idea how much. You have no idea the things I'd like to do to you. I don't find you lacking in any areas at all."

Mycroft stilled completely for a few seconds, surprise registering on his face, then something else, something like…pleasure. Relief. Turning to desire. His expression quickly became rather predatory. "Likewise, Inspector."

Mycroft reached out then, and laid his hand on the counter. Mycroft's fingertips moved to brush Lestrade's, just barely. "Have no doubt about this. I like you exactly as you are, Inspector. Gregory," he quickly corrected, switching from his usual formal mode to the rare informal. Mycroft's voice remained cool, elegant, almost purring. "The most brave and loyal man I've ever known." Now Mycroft leaned towards him and his lips dipped towards Lestrade's ear, tantalizingly close to touching. "I don't need anything posh. Just you. My diamond in the rough..."

Shit. Lestrade shuddered involuntarily as Mycroft leaned back, pulled his hand away, conceding to the very public venue in which they unfortunately were at the moment. The way he had said that just sounded…sexy dirty. He wasn't sure if he should be flattered or offended, but he didn't care. He was mostly concentrating on the word 'rough,' the nearly electric feel of skin brushing against skin, the sound of that voice, low and silky. He felt a jolt go straight to his groin, felt a straining at his trousers. Hell, if they were alone and somewhere private, Mycroft could say toaster oven to him in that voice and he would not be able to stop himself from coming all over.

Just then there was a low roll of thunder and they both jumped in their seats and laughed a little, startled back into reality and out of the sensually charged world of their own they had just been cocooned in. They both simultaneously looked outside at the rain that was still coming down, now a bit lighter than it had been. The sun was just starting to break through the clouds.

Lestrade looked back at Mycroft. "I didn't lie about everything in my profile."

"Oh?" Mycroft prompted, with that devastating quirk of an eyebrow Lestrade knew so well.

"I like kissing in the rain. At least, I think I would. I never have."

Mycroft almost sighed. "Me, too. Sort of a bucket list thing, really."

Lestrade had to smile at hearing that. "I knew we had to have _something_ in common. We've got to start somewhere, right?"

Lestrade looked outside again, then back to Mycroft. "Want to get out of here? Looks like the rain is going to let up soon."

"Then we should leave immediately," Mycroft answered quickly.

Without wasting another second, they shoved their chairs back with a screeching of wooden legs over tiles. They grabbed their coats and exited the coffee shop hastily, laughing as they jostled to get through the door at the same time and out into the rain that they hoped would not end anytime soon.


End file.
